Yesterday, Emelie, Clyde and I took a boat to Sibulan, Negros Island, then a jeepney to Dumaguete City. I needed to get an extension on my visa and Dumaguete has the closest Immigration Office. It's a necessary process every two months and costs about 3500 pisos ($80 U.S. currency, at the current exchange rate). While there, I found out that I can avoid the hassle and expense by getting a "balik bayan" visa. If Emelie and I travel out of the country, we can get the balik bayan upon request. That particular visa is free for a year and can be renewed yearly. That is almost unbelievable here, where the foreigner is charged heavily for the privilege of being where the water, weather and women are beautiful beyond compare and the cost of daily living turns a U.S. pauper into a Philippine prince.
Then I asked the lady who works for Immigration - who is so pleasant, accommodating and informative, by the way, that it seems impossible she is a government employee - about a Permanent Residency. She referred me to the head honcho who was sitting in the office behind her. She told me to just walk in, which I did, with a little trepidation - a carry-over from my years of dealing with officious and important-in-their-own-eyes government employees of Uncle Sam.
He was just as pleasant and helpful. The listed rules concerning PR of foreigners state that the person must have the equivalent of $10,000 U.S.D. in the bank in order to be considered for permanent residency. He asked me if I had that much. I said no. He told me that if I had property or a business or regular government checks coming in, those could be used as part of the requirement for proof of financial support. I had all three. I was relieved to know it. After getting a copy of the application for permanent residency, we left and went shopping.
M R Pigs. (O S A R!)
There were two or three, fat-and-skin-encased pigs feet in a bowl on the table, the entire morning. I went to do some errands: getting food for En En at the carenderia; buying some ice for our cooler. When I returned home, the same bowl with the same contents was sitting on the same kitchen table. Emelie was sweeping up the bamboo leaves in the yard and asked me if I would start preparations for lunch by cutting up some garlic, onions and the meat. "Meat" was obviously a catch-all phrase, a euphemism for that combination of gristle, fat, hide and bone resting itself on the table.
Emelie knows I don't eat that kind of stuff and I haven't a clue about how to slice it or get it ready for anything other than the garbage, which is what I had in mind, sans garlic and onions. For a moment, I pictured myself hovering over the bowl of pork by-products, knife in hand, wondering what to cut away and what to save: The table stays. Maybe the bowl.
Wouldn't it be be better to lay it in the road and run over it with a truck until it has the consistency of something that would digest in the stomach of the neighbor's dog?
Pig fat probably has some use, maybe in protecting the pig from the severe cold of equatorial winters, or maybe as a lubricant. I watched Bobby Cinco use it for bearing grease on his tricycle recently. The wheel developed a squeal after that, hinting of the pig's bellowing in it's final moments, just before being hacked into ham, chops, and - oh, yes - pig's feet.
No, I wasn't going to prepare lunch and I answered my wife's question with silence. "You should know better than to ask." was the unspoken meaning, underscored by the vacuum of quiet. Later, I was to find out that she was talking about a bag of real pork meat and the feet were for her sister, Jane, who was there at the house with us. Never mind.
Emelie knows I don't eat that kind of stuff and I haven't a clue about how to slice it or get it ready for anything other than the garbage, which is what I had in mind, sans garlic and onions. For a moment, I pictured myself hovering over the bowl of pork by-products, knife in hand, wondering what to cut away and what to save: The table stays. Maybe the bowl.
Wouldn't it be be better to lay it in the road and run over it with a truck until it has the consistency of something that would digest in the stomach of the neighbor's dog?
Pig fat probably has some use, maybe in protecting the pig from the severe cold of equatorial winters, or maybe as a lubricant. I watched Bobby Cinco use it for bearing grease on his tricycle recently. The wheel developed a squeal after that, hinting of the pig's bellowing in it's final moments, just before being hacked into ham, chops, and - oh, yes - pig's feet.
No, I wasn't going to prepare lunch and I answered my wife's question with silence. "You should know better than to ask." was the unspoken meaning, underscored by the vacuum of quiet. Later, I was to find out that she was talking about a bag of real pork meat and the feet were for her sister, Jane, who was there at the house with us. Never mind.
Just Another Episode
Jan’s actions tickle me. Bursting with personality and joi de vivre, his gusto and originality seem to be internally motivated by his delight with life.
When he first joined us, I braced myself for trouble. Only 13, he had left home and was living in empty shacks or sleeping for a few hours at Jude Momo’s all-night internet café. During the week, he would go to school and hang out without attending class or, if he went to a class, would sleep through most of it.
He enjoyed fist-fighting with the other kids and his attitude reflected a self-image of toughness and independence. But I suspected an aching loneliness and desire to fit in. Why else would he hang out around the school, on the fringe of his peer group, refusing to participate but showing an obvious desire to be part of the that group?
The situation grew worse. He was suspected of breaking into two different homes and stealing money and food. I felt a sinking feeling about his future, with a strong possibility of drug and alcohol involvement, aimless shifting, and the future prospect of jail time, all in a downward spiral with not much hope for good outcomes, and a chronic loneliness and confusion about life and how to live it.
I thought about all of this for a couple of weeks or so, toying with the idea of taking him to live with us. But I wasn’t sure if I had the patience or energy to deal with what I saw as his personality and problems.
Then, his brother Clyde, older by two years, joined Jan in his lifestyle of “catch-as-catch-can”, sleeping wherever; eating what they could get their hands on.
One night, shortly after, on the way home from our internet shop, I stopped the tricycle in front of Jude’s place, on a hunch that the two boys would be there. I went in and saw Clyde and Jan watching another boy playing a computer game. I told Clyde, in a firm, authoritative tone, to come outside so we could talk. (I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to give him a chance to refuse.)
The street was dark. I couldn’t see Clyde’s face. I wondered what he was thinking. There was no clue in the blackness there at the side of the road. I made my speech short and to-the-point, telling him that he was coming home with us. I told him to go back in and get his brother. When Jan Mark came out, I told him that he and Clyde were coming home with us.
It brings tears to my eyes as I write this. Two boys at a deceptively simple fork in the road. There was no fanfare; no sign of the importance of their decision to walk quietly to our vehicle and get in.
We laid down some rules that first night, but the overall message was one of hope: You boys have a home here. We’ll take care of you. You are safe with us.
They were now part of our growing family: Emelie and I, the boys’ older sister, Stefhanie, and Stefhanie’s baby, Shane, a fifteen month-old girl.
I love them all – probably Shane the most. After all, babies are set up that way: to engender love from the family that surrounds them.
As for Jan Mark, I’ve changed my opinion about him. Drastically so. Whatever toughness and attitude I think I saw, is not there at all now. Only an openness from a loving boy whose orneriness can be a pain in the ass at times. But his caring nature is always apparent.
When I was a kid, my father induced fear as a way of controlling the behavior of his children and wife. I knew how that affected me, the night that Jan and Clyde came to live with us. And I knew how their father used the same tactics. Something inside of me made itself known. I couldn’t ignore the overwhelming desire to provide a different atmosphere for the boys. I made a conscious choice to provide a loving and safe environment for them and the other two. It was a transformational decision for me.
I found that making a commitment to providing a loving environment for the kids, brought some surprising changes as well. Like magic, the kids responded in like kind: with love and respect. And the most amazing, and ironic change is this: a healing of old wounds started to take place inside of me. I feel it. I feel its positive nature. Promise springs from this, and a steady-state of feeling safe and secure – the other end of the spectrum from living in fear for my safety – like being cradled in the womb, for all time.
I didn’t say much about Emelie in this version of this episode of our life. But she plays a central role in everything that took place and continues to take place. Emelie is the pillar of loving strength in our home. The kids have all known this for their entire lives. Almost all of them have asked to live with her at some time or another. She has taken in both Frederick, the second-to-the-youngest of the family, and Stepfanie. Frederick lived with Emelie for a time while I was still in the U.S. and Stefhanie lived with her years ago.
My wife’s sometimes-stern, but always solid and unwavering love, is the foundation of our lives together. Her heart guides her every decision concerning our family. I sometimes feel at a loss as to how she comes to a conclusion about what to do. But I have learned to trust whatever quiet process takes place inside of her and leads her to make decisions that are magical and effective in bringing out the best in us.
Random Ramblings
Not much going on here at the internet café. Six of us are using the computers but not one is a paying customer. The internet is down in all the cafés in town. It happens. There is only one internet provider in this area of the province. In fact, it is the only provider in most of the province, with the exception of “the city” (Cebu City
I just took a walk with my grand niece, Shane. We walked to the convenience store for a pack of medium diapers. She was wet, so I didn’t carry her until we were on our way back to the shop: when she grew tired of walking and slowed down, I picked her up. Then we talked to the moon for a minute. She stares at the moon for a long time, as if it is something fascinating to see. I agree with that assessment.
One evening, about two months ago, she was out in the front yard with her mom, watching the moon. Shane extended her arm and opened and closed her hand, making a “come here” gesture to the moon, saying “Peso, moon. Peso, moon!” as if requesting the moon for money. I would never have thought of such a thing, myself. I like her ingenuity and it’s a no-lose situation. If a peso falls out of the sky, so be it; if not, nothing lost.
It’s times like this that make me wonder what she thinks. Does she really think the moon can give her a peso? And what ever inspired her, a 1 and one half year-old, to put peso and moon together in a request?
The same six of us, Jan Mark, Clyde , Stefhanie, Frederick
Jan Mark and Clyde made a game out of picking up a huge chunk of dead coral from the bottom of the ocean, taking it to another location, dropping it, and swimming down to pick it up again. They are both very good swimmers and can stay under water much longer than I can.
All the kids, including Shane, just love the sea – the “dagat” in Cebuano. Each visit to the ocean is as fresh and new as the first; never taken for granted. My greatest joy is watching their never-ending pleasure. I am grateful for the opportunity to witness it, and be a part of it.
A Virus, an Emancipation, Some Pigs
It's Philippine cold season, the kind of cold that starts with a virus and ends a month or two later when the fever, chills, cough, and runny nose have run their course. Luckily, it can only happen in any month that starts with a letter between A and S. That's how I remember it. I figured that out during the peak of one of my feverish periods two years ago.
I caught my present cold yesterday. A half hour after I felt the scratchiness in my throat, my wife complained of a soreness in hers. I've heard that women who have lived together for a while, have their periodic cycles in sync with one another. (Is there something that links the last two sentences together? I'm not sure.)
Here is a true story about the island of Negros, just a stone's throw and about 10 miles across Tanon Straight, from where we are on Cebu Island. The Spanish invaded the Philippines in the 1500's and possessed it for about 450 years.
The inhabitants of Negros Island had a unique and ingenious way of ousting their captors. Since they had no money for weapons, they made fake ones carved from wood - rifles, canons, etc. They painted their wooden weapons and marched on the capital. When the Spanish saw them marching their way, from a distance, they immediately laid down their arms and surrendered.
How about that? I wish I could get rid of my cold that easily. I would take a placebo, label it "virus killer", swallow it with a glass of water and then wait in front of the toilet with the expectation of hearing the screams and yells of the viruses as they fled my body in a stream of pee.
Never mind.
A ritual started about two weeks ago, at our house. I'm sure it's one of those family-bonding things that the two teenage boys will remember when they are old. One evening I told them the story of the three little pigs.
The wolf, whose name was Justice, was bigger and meaner than the original, and had an awful breath from former pig-eating forays. Because of my growing, age-related confusion, other characters entered the story. Little Red Riding Hood was there, sliding in on her silver skates. The White Rabbit, dressed for tea, booked wagers at 2-to-1 odds, against the wolf, and Johnny Carson, as Carnak the Magnificent, prophesied the fate of the pigs.
B.S. flowed. The lie got bigger.
Stopping just long enough to lubricate the parch in my throat with rum and water, we finally got to the end, the part where Bilbo Baggins carved up a ham sandwich for himself in the house made of bamboo, old Chevy parts, and carabaw dung. But I had forgotten, until the boys reminded me, that the wolf was still hanging around the front door, dreaming and drooling over the possibility of a share in the ham booty. So, the wizard sent in the witch and her flying monkeys, who skewered the wolf and cooked him, live, over an open pit of charcoal designed for roasting pigs. Justice was served.
Every day since the first, the boys ask for stories. Their engrossed faces tell of the magical fascination that is a gift reserved for the young.
It makes me very happy to cater to that fascination.
I caught my present cold yesterday. A half hour after I felt the scratchiness in my throat, my wife complained of a soreness in hers. I've heard that women who have lived together for a while, have their periodic cycles in sync with one another. (Is there something that links the last two sentences together? I'm not sure.)
Here is a true story about the island of Negros, just a stone's throw and about 10 miles across Tanon Straight, from where we are on Cebu Island. The Spanish invaded the Philippines in the 1500's and possessed it for about 450 years.
The inhabitants of Negros Island had a unique and ingenious way of ousting their captors. Since they had no money for weapons, they made fake ones carved from wood - rifles, canons, etc. They painted their wooden weapons and marched on the capital. When the Spanish saw them marching their way, from a distance, they immediately laid down their arms and surrendered.
How about that? I wish I could get rid of my cold that easily. I would take a placebo, label it "virus killer", swallow it with a glass of water and then wait in front of the toilet with the expectation of hearing the screams and yells of the viruses as they fled my body in a stream of pee.
Never mind.
A ritual started about two weeks ago, at our house. I'm sure it's one of those family-bonding things that the two teenage boys will remember when they are old. One evening I told them the story of the three little pigs.
The wolf, whose name was Justice, was bigger and meaner than the original, and had an awful breath from former pig-eating forays. Because of my growing, age-related confusion, other characters entered the story. Little Red Riding Hood was there, sliding in on her silver skates. The White Rabbit, dressed for tea, booked wagers at 2-to-1 odds, against the wolf, and Johnny Carson, as Carnak the Magnificent, prophesied the fate of the pigs.
B.S. flowed. The lie got bigger.
Stopping just long enough to lubricate the parch in my throat with rum and water, we finally got to the end, the part where Bilbo Baggins carved up a ham sandwich for himself in the house made of bamboo, old Chevy parts, and carabaw dung. But I had forgotten, until the boys reminded me, that the wolf was still hanging around the front door, dreaming and drooling over the possibility of a share in the ham booty. So, the wizard sent in the witch and her flying monkeys, who skewered the wolf and cooked him, live, over an open pit of charcoal designed for roasting pigs. Justice was served.
Every day since the first, the boys ask for stories. Their engrossed faces tell of the magical fascination that is a gift reserved for the young.
It makes me very happy to cater to that fascination.
Newly-Discovered Sexual Position: A Promise of Heavenly Delight!
A new post is an imposing obstacle when all I have in mind is a "sense" of what I want to write. That "sense" contains a lot of sentiment and, as such, is as far away from the construction of words as the brain will allow. But, that's where the gift of writing comes into play. Somewhere there is an intersection between thought and feeling. For me, it is not direct observation that puts thought and feeling together, at that intersection. What works for me is diving in, swimming around the arena of feelings, then surfacing into thought, looking around for landmarks, and going back under, then, repeating this process until the light comes on in my head that is attached to my typing fingers. Voila! Thoughts come, "stuff" happens and words are formed.
But tonight is different. I don't have a "sense" about anything. I am sitting in front of this computer at our internet cafe, because I feel like writing, but the desire alone doesn't carry much punch. My fingers are ready. The blank screen is waiting for the little black symbols to fill the page. Nothing comes to mind. Kind of like going out for target practice without ammunition. At least there are no bears to contend with. Not that life lacks anything noteworthy: Jane, Emelie's sister and the mother of the kids we take care of, just had another baby. Look. Don't spread it around, but I hope she quits having kids.
It is ant season here. You won't hear about ant season on the weather channel. Sure, there is rainy season and dry season and hot and "cold" season (when the temp drops to a shivering 75 degrees), but it is all a tactic of the Department of Tourism, in cooperation with the media, to avoid talking about ant season, the meanest season of the year.
Fifteen minutes after rainy season, when the earth is dry and hot, the ants surface en-mass, in search of food. Grain, meat, sweets, oil - depending on the kind of ant - are all on the list but your foot is a more-than-adequate substitute for any of these.
I found out, recently, that ants don't bite, they sting. Well, actually, they drill. That's right. They drill a hole into you and then squirt a bunch of chemicals in that are manufactured in the meanest part of the ant, probably very close to the asshole (excuse my French), since the whole business stinks.
But tonight is different. I don't have a "sense" about anything. I am sitting in front of this computer at our internet cafe, because I feel like writing, but the desire alone doesn't carry much punch. My fingers are ready. The blank screen is waiting for the little black symbols to fill the page. Nothing comes to mind. Kind of like going out for target practice without ammunition. At least there are no bears to contend with. Not that life lacks anything noteworthy: Jane, Emelie's sister and the mother of the kids we take care of, just had another baby. Look. Don't spread it around, but I hope she quits having kids.
It is ant season here. You won't hear about ant season on the weather channel. Sure, there is rainy season and dry season and hot and "cold" season (when the temp drops to a shivering 75 degrees), but it is all a tactic of the Department of Tourism, in cooperation with the media, to avoid talking about ant season, the meanest season of the year.
Fifteen minutes after rainy season, when the earth is dry and hot, the ants surface en-mass, in search of food. Grain, meat, sweets, oil - depending on the kind of ant - are all on the list but your foot is a more-than-adequate substitute for any of these.
I found out, recently, that ants don't bite, they sting. Well, actually, they drill. That's right. They drill a hole into you and then squirt a bunch of chemicals in that are manufactured in the meanest part of the ant, probably very close to the asshole (excuse my French), since the whole business stinks.
Okay. This isn't science, but you can throw science out the window when you have just been stung on your big toe by an ant. Feels like a nail has been driven through your foot. I got stung three times this past friday, which just happened to have been Good Friday. It was a near-religious experience. Probably would have been the real thing if I hadn't said "Holy Shit!" In this case, "holy" modifies the word the shit, as any English major would tell you, but it don't modify it enough to render it pure and clear. At least, not pure and clear enough to open the gates of heavenly bliss and allow for even a fraction of a second of religious experience. Damn! I screwed up!
Most of the ants that sting are red, but there are exceptions to the rule: notably, a very large black ant, about a half inch long, called the nigerus antus maximus mf. I named it myself. All is in latin except for the "mf", which are the first letters of the two words that I yell out whenever I get pierced by one of these babies!
Okay, that's all I have to say about that.
Well, were you expecting something else?
Most of the ants that sting are red, but there are exceptions to the rule: notably, a very large black ant, about a half inch long, called the nigerus antus maximus mf. I named it myself. All is in latin except for the "mf", which are the first letters of the two words that I yell out whenever I get pierced by one of these babies!
Okay, that's all I have to say about that.
Well, were you expecting something else?
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